


Lies, Secrets, and Half-Truths

by Lady_Impala



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bottom Tony, Fix It Fic, M/M, Secrets, Sexual Tension, Stony - Freeform, Top Steve, Unrequited Love, Will You Two Just Kiss Already, drunk makeouts, long con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-09-21 09:49:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9542393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Impala/pseuds/Lady_Impala
Summary: In the aftermath of the Civil War, Steve has disappeared with half the Avengers, leaving Tony to his own devices. Stubborn as ever, he's determined to make the Accords work, but he needs Steve's help. He's suspicious of Ross, and worries the man is making a power grab. So he reaches out for Captain America's help, and gets more than he bargained for.





	1. Reaching Out

**Author's Note:**

> I started this for NaNo last year. Didn't complete it, but I've got some pieces cobbled together for your enjoyment. Lots of plot, lots of sexual tension, and eventually, lots of sex. You're gonna hate me for it, but you'll love me in the end, I promise. <3 Comments appreciated, as always!

It was late. Late enough it might actually be early for some folk. Most of the lights in the lab were dim, displays dark. The only lights still on were those in the alcoves above each version of the Iron Man suits, progressing in technical craftsmanship from left to right. Even the original one, the first one Tony built, had its own home. And all the way on the right, his most recent creation. Beat to hell, dented, cracked, with the shattered arc reactor still in the center of the chest. 

And beside it hung Steve's shield, equally tarnished with long, ugly claw marks left behind by T'Challa. Tony could fix them both, it wouldn't be that difficult. 

But he couldn't bring himself to touch them. 

So he was alone, feeling the seconds tick by with each beat of his heart. The darkness was thick around him, cloying and clinging like oil. Coffee dark eyes stared at the shield, illuminated from below and glowing in the shadows. Light bounced from the curved, scarred surface, reflecting into the amber liquid that swirled in his heavy glass tumbler. Set beside him on the workbench he leaned a denim-clad hip against was a tall green bottle, over half empty. 

It had been full when Rhodey left, just a couple hours ago. 

Pushing off the metal table, Tony wrapped his fingers around the neck of the bottle and walked towards the suits, steps slow but steady. He came to a stop beside the shield, taking a long drink of his scotch as he stared at it. Dared it to do something. What, he wasn't sure, but Tony was clearly waiting for something. 

The months hadn't been kind to him. Already trapped in a battle with his personal demons of sleepless nights, too much alcohol, and not enough...something, Siberia had done him no favors. Tony wasn't one hundred percent sure, but he could guess it had been at least a week since he'd had more than two hours of sleep at a go. He'd be lucky if he'd clocked twelve hours in the same time. The circles beneath his eyes were dark and heavy, face gaunt and pale beneath the usual olive tone. It made his features sharper, harsher than they used to be. 

Those lines around his mouth, cut at the corner of his eyes weren't laugh lines anymore. 

"God damn you, Rogers," Tony sighed, his rough voice cutting across the silence he couldn't stand. "Why couldn't it have been anyone else? Anyone? Coulson, Thor, hell even Banner I could stand to hate. But you?" He drained his tumbler with a slow shake of his head, tapping the rim against the curved vibranium. A soft chime rang off the shield, filling the quiet lab and echoing off still equipment. "No. It couldn't have been anyone else. No one else would have been so fucking stubborn. That's the hell of it, isn't it?" 

Lifting the bottle, Tony poured himself another glass, filling it well over halfway before looking around for a place to set the bottle. With no flat surfaces nearby, he resorted to manipulating the glove of his suit to hold it. In his deeply inebriated, emotionally shattered state, the sight was significantly more entertaining than it would have been any other day of the week. This resulted in a snorted laugh into his scotch, and a soft clink of glass to glass as he toasted the suit, and the memory of his friend. 

God, had he really resorted to thinking about Steve in the past tense? That thought chilled Tony, and he chased the shudder with the burn of scotch. His free hand slid into the pocket of his jeans, finding that damn cell phone, just sitting there. A weight against his leg, strapped to him like an anchor. His heart leapt in his throat, Rhodey's words coming to mind, yet again. 

_The Accords need him._

_And so do you._

Tony really hated it when Rhodey was right. 

His fingers wrapped tightly around the phone and pulled it out, flipping palm up to stare at it. He tossed it a few times, still sober enough to maintain most of his dexterity. The letter said that Steve would be there if he was needed. But would he really? Would his old friend really drop what he was doing just because he called? 

He wouldn't know if he never called. 

Flicking the phone open with a twist of his wrist, Tony traced over the slightly raised buttons with the pad of his thumb. A slightly resigned smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he took another drink. Even his phones were old school, comparatively. But the man did, in fact, listen when Tony talked; he’d gone to great lengths to ensure that this phone wasn’t traceable. It only had the ability to make a calls to a single number, and no incoming calls were accepted. He had a suspicion that the other pair to this was the one number that could call in. 

He hadn’t tested this on the number programmed into the phone, of course. He was, admittedly, too chicken. Still was, as a matter of fact. So Tony kept staring at the phone, finally steeling his nerve enough once he actually finished his scotch. Turning away from the suits, leaving his bottle behind, Tony crossed back to the table and set his glass down almost delicately. “Worse he can do is say no, right?” 

That was bad enough. 

With a slow, deep breath, Tony pressed the only button that worked; the send button. 

By some miracle, the phone started to ring. Even more surprising, it was answered in the middle of the second ring. “Tony,” came that familiar voice; deep, silky smooth, and perfect. Just the sound of his name made Tony’s eyes slide closed, the sound coiling around his ear and warming him in the pit of his belly. God how he’d missed that voice. It was like water to a dying man, soothing aches he didn’t know he had, and sparking embers he’d left untended. Even now, he felt his heart skip a beat, and suddenly every meticulously rehearsed word fled from his mind. If pressed, he wasn’t sure he could give his own name. “…Tony?” 

Right. That was it. Tony. 

“Yeah!” he said quickly, seeming to shake himself out of a daze and suddenly very glad he was alone. “Yeah, sorry, hi. Uh…hey.” God, what was he, a fourteen year old girl? “Steve?” 

There was a pause, then half a huffed laughed from the other end. “Yeah, Tony, it’s me.” He could almost picture that slightly incredulous half smile, eyes closing as he shook his head. 

Then the silence. God, not the silence again. Tony was the one who made the call, so he couldn’t expect Steve to carry the conversation. And damn him, he was going to make Tony work for it. It dragged for too many seconds, Tony scraping his fingers along the line of his stubbled jaw, turning suddenly to look at his reflection in the chest of one of his suits. “Damn, I need to shave,” he muttered out loud. 

The tone of the silence changed, from intentionally difficult to completely baffled. “…I’m sorry, what did you just…did you just say you need to shave?” 

“Yeah, what? I do.” God, he really shouldn't have had so much to drink before making this phone call. 

Then again, would he have, if he'd been sober? Unlikely. 

"Before you get snippy with me, no, that's not why I called." 

"Good, because I'd be extremely irritated if you woke me up to talk about your lack of personal hygiene." For all the teasing in his voice, Tony though he could hear the faintest note of concern. No, that couldn't have been it. It was probably just exhaustion. Tony's mind raced as he tried to figure what timezones that might have pegged them in, but he was barely aware of what time it was for him, so he brushed aside the fragmented thought. 

"Look, Steve, I..." He what? A thousand thoughts crowded his mind all at once, clamoring for attention, trying to break free to explain. But what did he have to explain that Steve would listen to? They'd tried, God help them, Tony had tried so many times to get Steve to see reason, and he just refused. Planted his feet and refused to give any ground. 

And now he was going to do just that again. 

"Steve, I need you." The words fell out before Tony could reconsider them. There was an awkward pause as Tony tried to come up with what to say to make that less weird, but Steve beat him to it. 

"Are you alright?" All business now, Tony could just picture Steve sitting up a little straighter in his chair, brows drawn down in worried thought. 

"In the immediate future, yes. No one's shooting at me." Not yet anyway. Not literal bullets. But at the same time, Tony could feel Ross breathing down the back of his neck, pushing for more control, pushing to get him out of the equation entirely. The whole thing was running down hill at a break-neck pace, and Tony was beginning to worry he couldn't keep up alone. "We need to talk." 

"About what?" Steve asked cautiously. 

"Nothing I want to discuss over the phone," he responded a little sharper than he meant. Great, they'd been talking for all of two minutes, and already the fighting was starting. Tony rubbed his fingers across his forehead and sighed. "We need to talk face to face. I'll meet you anywhere you want." 

Once again, Steve's end of the line was quiet. All Tony could hear was the sound of his slow, measured breathing. No background noise to give him any sense of where he was, or what time of day it might be. Had Steve hidden away in some quiet room to keep the conversation private? Did anyone else know about the phone? 

He doubted it. 

His meandering thoughts were cut off when Steve finally drew in a louder breath. "I'll come to you." Tony released a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, relief flooding his chest and loosening the knot that had formed around his ribs. 

"Where?" 

"I said I'd come to you, Tony," Steve said, firmer. "You do you, and I'll find you. It's what I do." And that, it seemed, was the end of the conversation. The call cut off, and Tony was left holding a dead phone to his ear. 

He lowered it and stared at the dark screen, finally flipping it shut with a snap and tossing it onto the nearest table. It skittered across the smooth surface before crashing to the floor, drawing an annoyed sigh from Tony. "Nice talking to you, too, Rogers. How's the family? Good, I hope. Not in jail or anything." Shaking his head, he took his bottle back from the suit and turned, leaning his back against the cold concrete wall beneath Steve's damaged shield and sliding to the floor. He tipped his head back to stare at the dull shine of the curve above his head as he took a long drink from the bottle.


	2. Face to Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Tony talk for the first time in a long time, face to face. It goes exactly as well as you might expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, angst. Yes. You were missed. <3 Comments, as always, are appreciated!

Weeks passed without a word. Tony didn't know what he expected; it wasn't like Steve was just downstairs in his room, and he'd be upstairs in a minute. No, the man was halfway across the world, and it wasn't like he could just hop a plane with his passport. Sure, getting out of the country would be easy enough, he had T'Challa to grease whatever skids they needed. But once he was out from their protections, Steve was fair game. And he didn't blend in terribly well, the big lug. 

After the first few days of pacing his lab like a caged animal, Tony berated himself for his utterly embarrassing stupidity, and buried himself in his work again. Most of his time was spent perfecting and upgrading his latest version of his suit. The last one still sat in the alcove; in a flurry of creative inspiration, Tony had decided to start from scratch. 

If nothing else, it kept his hands busy. 

Any time not spent in the lab, or passed out on top of his huge, empty bed was spent avoiding Ross. This was proving harder and harder as time went on, and a few times the man had managed to corner him. And every time, Tony would go back to the tower and disappear into his lab for a few days, barely coming out to shower or eat. 

It was after one of these particularly unpleasant meetings (read: interrogations) that Tony was stalking through the hall of Stark Tower, glowering at the floor beneath his feet as he worked loose the tie he'd been wearing for the damn board meetings Pepper had insisted he attend. Ross had caught wind and cornered him, and now he was doing his best to beat a fast retreat back to his lab. The door to his office opened, and a hand shot out to grab him in a strong grip, yanking him hard through the door, which was closed and locked behind him. 

Tony yelped in protest and flicked his wrist out of instinct, the slim watch gauntlet materializing around his hand as he was flung into the bookshelf. His hand shot up, pointed at his assailant, who was now standing across the room, a table between them. The man was wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his brow, and large sunglasses that obscured most of his face, but Tony would know that build anywhere. 

"Steve?! What the hell are you doing here?" Tony hissed as he flicked his wrist again, the gauntlet returning to the fashionable, expensive-looking watch that he wore at all times now. HIs heart pounded behind his ribs, painful against the stretch of scarring that latticed his chest. "Jesus Christ, how did you get _in_ here?" 

"I said I would find you, didn't I?" Steve said as he pulled his hat and glasses off, tucking them into the leather jacket he wore over a fairly non-descript, if exceedingly well fitted shirt. "This would have been much easier if you'd hang out in places with lower security, you know that?" 

"Yeah, well, you're not the only one looking for me these days." Willing his racing heart to slow, Tony pushed off the bookshelf and cautiously approached Steve. He stopped on the far side of the table, hands in his pockets to hide how badly they were shaking. "But you...you came." 

"I said I would, didn't I?" Steve looked like that was the most obvious answer in the word, and Tony supposed it was. Steve rarely, if ever, broke his word once it was given. It might take a while, but he always came through in the end. Tony's dark brown eyes took in the sight of Steve, drinking him in like a man dying of thirst even as he schooled his expression to be flat. At first glance, he looked the same as always, but closer inspection revealed taut skin, a wariness in his eyes that didn't used to be there, and a tension in his body that screamed fight-or-flight. Tony supposed he didn’t look much better after their time apart; he was thinner, paler, and he was sure the circles under his eyes were in particularly grand display today, since he hadn't slept in three days. 

The silence between them stretched, both of them unsure of what to say, or who should speak first. Tony assumed it ought to be him, because it usually was, but also because he was the one who called Steve. It seemed that Steve felt the same way, because he crossed his arms over his chest and raised a brow as if to say 'Well?', which Tony found immediately infuriating. "Look, we need to talk about--" 

"The Accords, right?" Steve finished for him, arms crossed over his chest in a clearly defensive posture. "There's pretty much nothing else you'd call me for these days." 

Tony opened his mouth to object, then sighed and dropped his hand. "Yeah. Got it in one. Aren't you clever." He watched Steve's face for any sign of reaction or opinion on why he'd come as far as he had to see him. All he found there was a hint of annoyance, but he wasn't surprised. Clearly he'd suspected something of this nature, and had come anyway. Tony supposed that was something. 

"You know my opinions on the Accords, Tony. That hasn't changed." 

"But _they_ have. Please, Steve, will you just...sit and hear me out?" Tony grabbed the back of a chair and sat down in illustration, opening both hands in invitation as he settled into what looked like a casual slouch to anyone else; to Steve, who knew how to read his former friend, he knew it was a show. Be too comfortable, make the other person feel like they were being unreasonable, and wait until they caved. 

Wise to his game, Steve still pulled out his own chair and took a seat. His posture was stiff and unyielding, elbows resting on the arms of the chair. “Alright. I’m listening.” 

Tony had practiced this speech a thousand times, a thousand ways. None of them ever turned out the way he wanted. But maybe that was all his own self-deprecation, and defeatist attitude since Siberia. Maybe the real Steve would see reason, would come around and help him. Help all of them. 

_Yeah, right,_ he sneered at himself. _You’re completely delusional._

Shutting out the demons in his head, Tony sat up a little, tension obvious in the line of his shoulder. “Look, I’ve been working one the Accords since you…Despite appearances, I do, in fact, listen to you when you talk. I've been working to expand the ability for people like you to actually do their job, without too much oversight. While still maintaining some degree of accountability. Because you know I'm not wrong; if the heroes just run rampant all over the world solving what they see as problems, it's no different than Ultron." He managed to squash his instant instinct to flinch at the name, but didn't spare himself the second to feel proud for it. "This is what the world wants, Steve, and you know it. If you don't participate, you become a victim of the system. You've seen it. Barton, Sam...Wanda. They've all seen the inside of a cell because of this thing. Roll your sleeves up and help out, and keep our friends out of prison, where we both know they don't belong. Heroes are weapons; weapons require a license." 

"Why are you so dead set on this thing, Tony?" Steve asked after a moment. "What is it about this stack of papers that has you so twisted up on the inside?" 

"It's not the papers, Steve, and you know it." Leaning on the edge of the table, Tony tapped the table with his finger. "Every single member of the UN signed it. Every. Single. One. It's not a bad idea, in the long run. But it needs another insider to clean it up. You almost agreed with me before. C'mon, this doesn't need to be a fight with us. Trust me, we've got enough ammo between us." He laid his palm flat on the table, leaning towards Steve to catch his eyes. "Why are you so dead set against this thing?" 

"Because some bureaucrat sitting behind a desk who's never picked up a weapon, or held a friend's life in his hands shouldn't have the power to tell us who needs saving and who doesn't." Now Steve leaned in, fully engaged with the genius across from him. "This thing shouldn't even exist, and you know it. I still don't get how you can back it. Since when do you follow anyone's rules but your own?" 

"It's not a matter of following rules or not, Steve, it's a matter of doing what's _right_ " Tony knew he'd struck home with that one. Steve fliched and sat back in his chair, face suddenly stone cold. He wasn't sure if he felt good or bad about landing such a hit, but he pressed forward. "I thought doing the right thing was your whole platform." 

"You can't honestly tell me that you, Tony Stark, think that putting a leash on the Avengers is the _right_ thing to do." Steve's voice was bitterly cold, and something about the harshness of it drew out surprising and unwelcome honesty from Tony. 

"What I think isn't the point anymore." Because if Tony was being completely honest with himself, which he never was, ever since watching the whole Accords business tear the closest thing Tony had to a family apart, he wasn't sure they were worth it. But when Steve and Natasha walked out, the two people he considered his closest friends, he'd realized he had nothing left but that stack of paper. So instead of tearing it up and chasing after them, his pride stuck in his throat, and he swore to make the damn things work, regardless of personal risk. 

Steve's brow furrowed as he frowned. "What you think absolutely matters, Tony. If you don't back this with all you've got, then you've sold yourself out for nothing. If I knew you backed this thing with every fiber of who you are, I'd be more willing to come around to your side. But if you're just doing this to save your pride, or your image, or...whatever, then I can't, Tony. Not in good conscience." He could see as Tony started to disengage, closing off and giving him the public Tony Stark face. One hand shot across the table and gripped his wrist, drawing him immediately back. A flash of something bright and surprised crossed Tony's face before vanishing behind his practiced mask of general disdain. "You can walk away any time, Tony. Take your name off, and start over." 

Steve's hand was remarkably warm, even with rough callouses from years of battle. Tony's eyes were drawn down to that hand wrapped around his wrist, and he wondered absently if the man could feel the faint tremble beneath those fingers. "It's not a damn Etch-A-Sketch, Rogers! I can't shake them and erase my name! Or what I've done." Unable to sit any longer, Tony pulled his hand back sharply and rose, pacing with nervous, frustrated energy. One hand jammed into his pocket in a tight fist, the other dragging through his hair as he turned his back on Steve. 

"And what is it you think you've done, Tony? What irreparable damage do you think you've caused that you can't atone for, and walk away from for a clean start?" Steve turned his hand over to lay his palm flat against the table, the other curled into a fist to match Tony's, hidden from view in his lap. 

The silence between them lingered as Steve's words brought Tony to a halt. His shoulders curled up towards his ears, and with a quick shake of his head, he crossed to the bar beside his desk, pouring himself a healthy tumbler of scotch, which he drank half of in one go. He blatantly ignored the disapproving look on Steve's face, setting the glass down and staring into the swirling amber liquid. "I see their faces, every time I close my eyes." 

That startled Steve. He sat up a little, hand unclenching to now join the other on the tabletop. He'd known about Tony's issues with crippling guilt; anyone who spoke to him for ten minutes and knew what to look for recognized it. That was what had started this whole disaster in the first place. Now he could hear it in his voice, see it in the curl of his shoulders and the cut of the lines around his mouth. Why hadn't he noticed it before, he wondered. "Whose?" 

"All the people that have died because of what we've...what I've done." One hand pressed flat against the cold granite counter, the other lightly toying with the glass, spinning it in slow circles. He avoided meeting Steve's eyes, occasionally glancing in his direction, but never making it past the strong hands on the table. "I've read every single name, looked at every single picture of who they were before we rolled through. Everyone we left behind, everyone we hurt. I've paid out millions in medical bills, in student loan repayments, in grants. The...the friends I've lost in all of this. I see Wanda, and Rhodey, and Sam, and Nat, and..." The words died in his throat, and Tony had to force himself past them. "I see you." His voice was a tremulous whisper, heavy with pain, and guilt, and anger. "I can't...I can't not, Steve. I know they aren't perfect. Far from. But a step in the right direction is still a step." 

"Since when are you one to compromise?" Tony could hear the irritation beginning to build in Steve's voice. Why in the hell couldn't the two of them be in the same room for five minutes without an argument starting? Without someone getting angry, or offended, or hurt? 

"When it fucking matters! Moral rigidity is your problem, not mine," Tony shot back as he looked up sharply, pointing an angry finger at his friend across the table as he straightened from his exhausted, hunched position. "And I'm sorry, but since when are you one to walk away from a fight?" 

"There's such a thing as strategic retreat, Tony, I've been-" Steve started, now on his feet. 

"That's not what this is, and you know it. You're hiding." His words echoed in the sudden, painful silence between them, and Tony instantly regretted it. Steve flinched as if he'd been struck, straightening and squaring his shoulders, like the Captain America Tony remembered him to be. 

"No, Tony, I'm not. That's you. You're hiding behind the idea of these Accords to assuage your guilt. To make yourself feel better." He didn't raise his voice; he almost never did, damn the calm bastard. But Tony could see the mask starting to crack, just around the edges. Something in what the genius had said snuck under that polished veneer, up under his skin in ways only he knew how. Each word was cold, calm, and surgically precise in its accuracy. "Has it occurred to you what the rest of the team is dealing with? What Wanda is dealing with?" Now it was Tony's turn to flinch, and Steve knew he'd hit a nerve. Good, he thought bitterly. "This whole thing has driven a wedge between us that it never should have been able to. We went through this once before, with Ultron, and we're here again." 

"Because of Ultron!" Tony snapped. "First you accuse me of not doing enough, and now you accuse me of doing too much. Which is it, Rogers?" His mind was suddenly filled with the bleak, black future he'd seen at Wanda's hands. A look at the future that he had pointed them towards. So many bodies, all of them with names he knew, names he heard in his nightmares. 

Steve looked baffled, his momentum temporarily halted. "When the hell did I say that?" 

The question shook Tony out of his dazed, swirling recollections. He froze, eyes wide, brows drawn down. Confusion crossed the anger in his expression, following by a quick flash of what might have been panic. It was gone as fast as it appeared, stuffed back behind the anger he used as effectively as Steve used his shield. "Nevermind. If you aren't hiding out under T'Challa's skirts, then what the fuck _are_ you doing?" His words were sharper, honed by an anxiety and a fear he couldn't shake. The same one that latched on every time he remembered what he'd seen. Now he could only fervently pray that Steve left before the dam broke. 

"I'm not hiding, Stark. I'm working to fix the problems in my own way. Our own way." Even with half a room between them, Tony could physically feel the pressure of Steve's presence against his skin. He resisted the sudden urge to take a step back. "And we're waiting for you to wake up." 

“I am too!” Temper hot, Tony hurled his half empty tumbler into the steel sink, viscerally satisfied by the shattering glass. The strong scent of scotch wafted up his nose as he turned away and braced his hands on the opposite counter. His shoulders curled up to his ears, fingers trembling against the cold granite. “Dammit, Rogers, why can’t you and I ever just talk to each other?” His voice was pitched low, and he hated the tremble in it. It made him sound weak; the fact that that was the truth didn’t matter. 

It stung Steve, too. None of this was ever supposed to go this way. But apparently, the two of them in the same room was an instantly volatile combination. Would they ever come together and see eye to eye, he wondered as he drummed his fingers against the table, head down. Chill blue eyes shifted up to study the lines of Tony’s back, reading the tension and rigidity there. Full lips pressed into a flat line, a tight breath hissing through his nose. “Because we’re too proud to step back from what we believe, no matter who’s pushing us.” 

A derisive snort cut through the tension between them. Tony turned back around and crossed his arms back over his broad chest, the soft silk of his shirt shifting against his biceps. With the sleeves rolled to his elbow, every flex of his forearms was easily visible, drawing Steve’s unwilling eye. “My eyes are up here, Cap,” drawled the low, rough voice, a clear note of amusement hanging heavy on his words. 

Steve’s response was fast and sharp. “Don’t call me that.” 

Dark brows drew down in a confused frown. “Didn’t used to bug you before.” Then again, everything was different before. 

“I used to deserve it, before.” Now it was Steve’s turn to look away, cheeks flushing with sudden unexpected shame. “Ever since…ever since I walked away from you, from half the team, I haven’t been able to claim that title, not…not really.” 

Confusion turned into offense, and then that familiar sting of guilt. "Look, Steve, if this is because of what I said..." 

"No, Tony, you were right," Steve cut him off. He pushed himself wearily upright, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "Look, I just...I need some more time. We both do. Let me think on this a while, and we'll talk again, ok?" 

Tony kept his arms crossed, refusing to budge. "You're running again." His voice was painfully flat, devoid of emotion. Steve flinched to hear it, but shook his head. 

"I'm giving us both the space we obviously still need. Relax, I'm not going back yet. I've got a place to crash here, I'm safe." One brow rose. "As long as you promise not to look for me, or tell Ross I'm here." 

Tony snorted at that. "Trust me, the less Ross knows, the better." Steve frowned at that, but Tony waved him off. "Fine. You know where to find me. I'm always here." Pushing off the bar, he looked down at the shattered glass in the sink, watching the last drops of the scotch slip down the drain and wishing for half a second that he could do that. But no. There was work to do. "I don't know how the hell you plan on getting out of here, but--" turning back, Tony found he was speaking to an empty room. He stared at the spot Steve had been standing in only a moment ago before dragging his hand through his hair and huffing an irritated sigh. "Well, at least this time I didn't have to watch you leave."


	3. Surrender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ross and Tony go a few rounds, but are interrupted by an unexpected guest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, as always, are appreciated! <3

Even before Tony made it back to the compound, he knew he was going to be in for an ass-kicking. 

A week had passed since Tony spoke with Steve in the tower, and he was tired of waiting, so he got back to work. The mission he'd been assigned was easy enough, in theory. There was an enhanced causing trouble in Chicago. More than the local law enforcement could handle, but not quite enough to require full mobilization of the Avengers. Check her out, shut her down, or bring her in. Nothing the Iron Man couldn't handle on his own. 

But when Tony touched down in the ghetto of Chicago, what he found was very different than the girl's file indicated. Yeah, she was enhanced, but she was doing more for her neighborhood than the local PD could be bothered with, largely because of where she lived. Deep in the ghetto, all of the strange, violent occurrences had been chalked up to gang activity, which was somewhat true. It was, in fact, a group of enhanced who were also terrorizing the city. So this girl had taken it on herself to try and contain the violence, and put a stop to them. 

Unfortunately, her powers were temperamental at best, and had resulted in a number of costly accidents that had left several innocent people hurt, and a couple dead. When Tony found her, she was a terrified, angry ball of hate barricaded in her dingy bathroom. The suit didn't do a lot to temper that, but it kept him moderately safe as she shot bolts of electricity at him, so he wasn't inclined to use it. His reputation with the Accords preceded him, and made talking her down twice as hard as it really should have been, but in the end, they managed a civil, if stilted, conversation. By the end of it, Tony had promised to leave her to her own devices, which he less-than-subtly supported and encouraged her to continue, so long as she agreed to some serious mentorship and anger management classes. 

Ross wanted the girl taken into custody, and instead Tony had just given her the Iron Man seal of approval. So yeah, he was in for it. 

As expected, as soon as Tony's boots hit the floor of his lab, he was swarmed by soldiers in tactical gear with rather imposing M-16s. He held up both hands in an instinctive posture, then realized that effectively pointing lasers at them likely wouldn't be well received, so he dropped them back to his sides. "Hey fellas, what's the problem?" 

"Keep yours hands where we can see them, Stark," intoned the flat voice of Ross, who stood behind Tony's workbench. FRIDAY's digital display was open, and the man was perusing it casually, both hands folded behind his back as he kept his profile to Tony. 

"It's not like I've got pockets, Ross," he said with a dry tone, the mask of his helmet sliding back to reveal Tony's annoyed, slightly flushed face. "You mind explaining my welcoming committee?" Seeming to ignore Tony, Ross leaned a little closer to some of the data that flashed across the display, including the face of the girl from Chicago. "FRIDAY, lock him out." The display instantly went dark, and the General turned back to the Iron Man with an infuriating smirk that didn't quite reach his flat eyes. 

"You disobeyed a direct order," Ross said as he stepped from around the bench. 

"Please don't tell me this surprises you, Ross. I know you're stupid, but I was hoping you weren't quite as stupid as you looked." With a silent command, the rest of the helmet snicked back and disappeared into the shoulders of his suit, leaving his head exposed. The soldier ringed around him were doing an admirable job of staying still, weapons still trained on him. Dozens of little red dots from their sights danced across his chest, though Tony paid them no attention. 

"This coming from the genius who just handed me a ticket to get his ass thrown on the Raft," Ross shot back, arms crossed over his chest. 

"Not my fault you left a loophole. She's been drafted into the satellite program for the Avengers Initiative. Early entry into the training program. A little feisty, but she'll fit in great." Tony eyed the guns around him. "Can you please call off your dogs? I'm not going anywhere, and we both know I've got the bigger guns here anyway." There was a sudden whirring sound, and four unmanned suits hovered over the group, repulsors aimed down at the soldiers. 

Ross blanched at the sight, a faint tremor visible in his hand before he swallowed it back and looked at Tony with wide eyes. "You wouldn't dare..." 

"Do you really want to find out?" Tony's brow arched high over humorless dark eyes, his lips twitching in what might have been a grin had it not been quite so...malicious. 

The battle of wills was brief before Ross finally dropped his arms. "Stand down," he said with a roll of his eyes. There was the sound of hands coming off triggers, safeties engaging, and all the guns were lowered. Still, Tony could see the tension in them, and knew that any sudden moves would put a few extra holes in him. "Tony-" 

"Look, Ross, it's been a really long couple days. I just got back, as you're clearly aware. Why don't you give me a minute to get out of my suit, shower, maybe eat something before you yell at me so I can ignore you?" In all honesty, while Tony did want out of the suit, and a shower, the rest of his plan...likely wouldn't come to fruition. All he really wanted to do was lose himself in a bottle of scotch that was waiting for him in his room. 

"About that..." Hands now in his pockets, Ross moved through the ring of soldiers, stepping past them so he faced Tony directly. "Section nine, item 84, line 243b states that if a member under the authority of the Accords acts outside the purview of his or her position, but does not break international law, the council may strip them of their power and/or advantage." The longer Ross talked, the more suspicious Tony got; he had been suspicious of the bureaucrat for a while now, getting the distinct vibe that the man was trying to make a power grab for his suits. 

Sometimes Tony really hated being right. 

"That so?" Tony draweled casually, one thick brow arching high over distinctly unamused brown eyes. Something dark and dangerous flashed briefly before it was masked again behind cool indifference. "You trying to tell me something?" 

"Effective immediately, the council now owns and controls all of your technology." That damn smug look only deepened, and Ross looked down at Tony with growing arrogance. "Including your suits." 

Hot rage flared in Tony's chest, and for a split second, a look of pure venom twisted his face. "No one _touches_ my suits," he hissed, advancing on the taller man. Ross instinctively stepped back, then realized his error and stood his ground. "I'd like to see you try and lay your hands on them." 

"Resisting a direct order of the council is grounds to land your happy ass on the raft yourself, Stark, and you know it." Ross leaned into Tony's space, trying to use his height to intimidate him. Unfortunately for Ross, Tony spent his time with men like Thor and Steve; very little intimidated him anymore. "You will hand over control of all of your suits, and grant full access to your systems immediately." 

"Boss," FRIDAY's voice cut across the end of Ross' statement. Tony waved his hand dismissively towards the ceiling, his attention only for the taller man who was in his space. 

"Like hell I will, you arrogant jackass. The second you even try and get into my systems, every single failsafe I've installed will go off. You'll lose every shred of research and data I've got in there. Every suit will take off and blow up in the sky, right over your fucking house if I've got any say in the matter." Tony's voice was low, but each word sliced like a blade, dripping in acid. 

"Hand them over, or I swear to God I'll throw you on the raft and leave you there to rot while all of your precious suits and research self-destruct, and then I'll carpet-bomb Wakanda, just out of spite!" The two men were nose to nose now, faces red as they argued over each other, FRIDAY still trying to get Tony's attention. 

"Like hell you will!" boomed a third voice from the ramp. Tony and Ross both stopped, staring in surprise at the source of the voice. 

Steve Rogers. 

Even without his suit and shield, there was absolutely no questioning that Steve Rogers was, and always would be, Captain America. He stood like he was braced for a fight; feet wide, hands curled into loose fists at his sides. With his shoulders back, Tony thought briefly that all he was missing was red, white, and blue confetti, and the man would be set. 

This train of thought was violently interrupted when the soldiers instantly brought their weapons up, sights now trained on Steve. “Oh, no you fucking _don’t_ ,” he snarled. With a snap of his arms, the four suits that were still hovering in the air immediately flew down to Steve. They encircled him, palms pointing outward. 

“God dammit, Tony!” Steve groaned, “You’re not helping.” 

“You being shot won’t help either, Rogers, shut up.” Ross was rapidly advancing on Steve, something bordering on lust in his eyes. “Ross, take another step, and I’ll blow your fucking head off.” To put weight behind his threat, Tony lifted his hand and pointed his repulsor at the general, who stopped in his tracks. His attention split between predator and prey, Ross curled his lip up in a derisive snarl. 

"Protect him, and you're harboring an international fugitive. You wanna bunk with him that bad?" 

"Put your fucking guns down, Ross, or I swear to God--" 

"Both of you, _BE QUIET_ ," Steve bellowed. It managed to silence them, both turning with looks of surprise and affront that he'd dared interrupt them. "Ross, I'm here to make you an offer." 

"What?!" Shouted Tony as Ross grinned like a cat with the cream. "Steve, what the hell--" 

"Tony, for the love of God, will you shut up a minute?" Irritation colored the edges of Steve's voice, and he turned his steely gaze to the shorter man, who was fuming inside his suit. 

"What's your offer?" Ross said, cutting between the two of them. Tony's lips curled up in a snarl, but for once, he held his tongue, though he still pointed his palm at the back of Ross' head. Just in case. 

With one last, lingering stare at Tony, Steve looked back at Ross. He squared his shoulders, and was absolutely everything that Captain America should be; confident, sure, strong. "In return for clean records and full immunity for all of the fugitive Avengers in Wakanda...I'll surrender." 

For once, Tony was shocked into silence. Ross' stare never left Steve's face, as if he didn't believe what he'd just heard. "You'll surrender?" He asked, taking a step forward. "Fully and completely?" 

"Yes. I'll come in, without a fight, and answer for all of my crimes against the Accords. But you don't get a single other member of the Avengers. They're safe, and cannot be tried for what happened." Steve couldn't bring himself to look at Tony, who looked like he'd been punched in the gut. The color drained from his face, leaving him an unhealthy sallow color, mouth hanging just slightly open. 

"Steve..." He breathed, hand falling to his side. 

Steve shifted his eyes over to Tony, and felt his heart clench. "This is the best solution," he answered quietly. "And what I should have done from the beginning." 

"Done," Ross said before any further argument could be had. He snapped his fingers, and the soldiers started advancing on Steve. "You'll have to answer for your crimes in Berlin." 

"Wait!" Tony's shout cut across the sound of shuffling armor and weapons, and they came to a halt. "You can't...give the man a little dignity, Ross. Let me take him." His voice was flat, but Steve could hear the edges fraying with a desperation he didn't want to think about. 

"How stupid do you think I am, Stark?" Ross sneered as he turned on the Iron Man. "You really expect me to trust you to bring him in, when you've made your opinion of the idea abundantly clear?" One angry hand gestured to the suits still blocking the soldier's path. 

"So you come with us. But we'll just be three men on a private jet to Germany. This doesn't need to be a thing. Not...not now." The wheels were turning in Tony's mind, plot after idea after scheme, discarded as quickly as they appeared. "You want to parade your catch of the day up the steps of the JCTC in Berlin, fine. Whatever melts your butter. But...not now. Not like this." 

Ross narrowed his eyes at Tony, then looked back at Steve. "Fine. But I get it my way in Berlin, deal?" 

"Yeah, fine, whatever." Tony swallowed hard and looked back at Steve with such abject devastation, he nearly collapsed right there. "So much for that chat." He turned back to Ross again. "Call off your dogs. The jet it is in the hangar, give me five minutes, and we can..." Unable to finish the sentence, Tony bit down hard on the inside of his cheek and turned away. "Five minutes." 

Once out of sight of the men, giving FRIDAY strict instructions to make sure they didn't try and leave without him, Tony shed his suit with an unsteady flick of his hand. As the metal fell away, he lost the only support that kept him on his feet, and Tony collapsed in a heap against the wall. His heart pounded in his chest, breath short as he felt an anxiety attack spring on him. Creeping up the back of his skull, like a million spiders with razor-sharp legs crawled under his skin and through his veins. His vision blurred, the world tilting abruptly as the world narrowed to a single point of light. 

"Boss? Are you alright?" FRIDAY asked, a note of genuine concern in the AI's voice. 

"Always," he said tightly, one hand gripping the center of his chest. "Fine. I'm fine. Just...give me a minute." The compression shirt he wore under his suit was sticky with cold sweat, and he peeled it off, letting it fall to the floor with a wet splat. Jamming the heel of his hand into the network of scars that littered his skin, Tony buried one hand in his hair and tugged hard to try and focus. Sharp pain cut through the fog, and after a few minutes, he managed to at least slow his heart enough that his vision cleared. "I've got it. I'm ok." 

"Everyone is waiting for you, Boss." 

"That's nothing new." Finally able to stand again, Tony looked around and spotted a half open closet across the room. He stumbled over to it and pulled out a fresh shirt, as well as new pants. Thank God he squirreled clothes all over the lab for exactly this reason. "Have someone send me my standard business kit to Berlin. Need it to meet me there. Oh, shit, I need..." As he pulled his shirt on over his head, Tony spun around and looked momentarily frantic. "Where is it?" 

"Where is what?" FRIDAY sounded confused, as if she too was looking around. 

"The case. The case with the...the..." 

"Are you looking for CAP, Boss?" 

"Yeah, that. Where is it?" 

"In secure storage beneath the lab, Boss. Where you always store it. Would you like me to have it sent up?" 

"No, I'll get it myself. Tell them I'll be ten minutes." Tony grabbed a jacket out of the closet, running his fingers through his hair to pretend to have himself together enough, and headed for the door at the back of the lab. 

"Ross isn't going to like that," FRIDAY warned even as the door opened as Tony approached. 

"Yeah, well, Ross can suck my left nut for all I care. Feel free to tell him that." The door slid shut behind Tony, and he descended the stairs. Several flights down, he was met with another steel door. A palm print, a retinal scan, and a blood sample finally allowed him in. Here was where he kept the most secure of his tech, including a few things SHIELD would really rather he didn't have. Most of it Fury knew about it. 

Some of it he didn't. 

Tony passed row after row of cases, and boxes, and tables littered with technical detritus. At the very back was a massive safe. Another series of scans, and the door opened. Inside, on a long metal table sat a briefcase. He released a slow breath and grabbed the case reverently. 

"Alright. Showtime."


	4. Blood on the steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing is ever easy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It gets bloody. <3 Comments, as always, are appreciated!

Everything about this rubbed Tony wrong.

He wasn't sure what bothered him more; the sickeningly self-satisfied look on General Ross' face, or the sight of Steve in shackles. Shackles that he'd made.

The room they waited in was extremely full, a beehive of bustling activity. Aides with paperwork, black boots with guns in case Steve tried something, a dozen other people Tony couldn't and didn't care to place. They were making a ridiculous spectacle of this all, planning to escort him up the steps of the JCTC headquarters in Berlin. Thousands of press and citizens filled the streets above them, waiting for the motorcade that would bring the "dangerous fugitive" to justice.

In the center of it all, Steve stood completely still. His wrists were bound in front of him, his normally conviction-bright blue eyes dark and downcast, studying the cold metal wrapped around his wrists. From across the room, Tony could read the tension in his muscles, bunched and still as if holding in every ounce of expansive energy that made him who he was. The lines of his face were cut deep, dark smudges beneath his eyes from lack of sleep. Was he thinner? He looked thinner. Maybe it was just the way his street clothes seemed to hang on him, where before it was almost like he was nearly bursting the seams of his shirts. Now the soft grey fabric moved against his skin with room to spare. Tony dragged his hand down over his face, feeling the scratch of days of stubble against the mechanic's callouses on his palm.

Tony moved through the crowd, eyes on Steve. He could feel Ross watching him, and couldn't give less of a flying fuck about it. Before he even entered Steve's peripheral vision, as if he could sense him, he looked up and met eyes. Where anyone else might have looked afraid, or angry, he was just...calm. Resolute. But Tony had a feeling that behind that implaccable wall was a man very much in turmoil. He knew his friend well enough to know that he believed in the choice he was making, that he would not back down now. 

That didn't mean he was comfortable with it.

Both hands in his pockets, Tony stopped beside him, head on to his profile. Steve started to turn, but at the instant shifting of every armed soldier in the room, he stopped. For the briefest second, a look of defiance tugged down on his brows, but it was erased before anyone other than Tony could see it. "They're a bit tetchy," Tony said quietly, his voice thicker than he would have liked.

"I can see that," Steve answered dryly, the corner of his eyebrow twitching up. He twisted his wrists in the shackles. "Some of your best work, I see."

"Don't," Tony whispered, surprising himself with the ferocity of the sound. He looked down at the shackles, fighting down the violent urge to rip them off and throw them away. "Steve, you don't...you don't have to do this.”

"Yes I do," he said just as quietly. His voice was much stronger, aided by that conviction that drove Tony so mad some days. "This isn't about me, Tony. This is about them. About my friends. Our friends. They don't deserve to go down for supporting me." Tony's head snapped up, mouth open to argue, but Steve cut him off. "I don't make this decision lightly, Tony. I know what this means. What this might mean."

Thick, dark brows drew down in the classic Stark frown. His coffee dark eyes studied Steve's face for a long moment, oblivious to the chaos around them. He seemed to be weighing something. A choice, a puzzle. Steve could see the wheels turning, and despite the dire situation, he couldn't help but feel his lips tilt up in a smile. The tip of Tony's tongue slid out to wet the full curve of his lips, and the bound man could see the instant the mechanic made his decision. "Do you trust me?" he asked in a low voice, pitched so only his friend could hear.

"Trusting you was never the problem, Tony," he answered instantly. There was only a faint glimmer of recognition of his response, a slightly sharper breath drawn in through pinched nostrils; Tony was deep within his own mind now, and there was no pulling him out until he had walked the maze to its conclusion. But really, inside that genius mind of his, something flared bright and hot deep in his gut. Recognition that all had not, in fact, been lost in Siberia. There was hope. There was a connection between them that even violence and animosity could not break.

"Ross!" Tony called over the din. The general hadn't taken his eyes off of the two of them, suspicion brewing. "He needs a suit." Steve watched in hidden fascination as Tony shifted from the intimacy of friendship to his public image; cold, cocky, and calculating in ways that were dangerous to anyone who wasn't prepared for it.

"Horseshit," the man countered. "What the hell do you think is going to happen?"

"That vigilante justice you're so dead-set on fighting," he shot back, now turning his back on Steve and raising a skeptical brow. "It's not just reserved for superheroes, you know. You are about to walk Steve Rogers, disgraced Captain America," he could feel Steve flinch behind him, but didn't let the pain reflect on his own face, "through a throng of people pissed off about collateral damage. Are you honestly going to stand here in a room full of people, and expect me to believe that you don't think, even just a little in that tiny little mind of yours, that someone out there wants to exact revenge?"

 _Forgive me_ , he thought fervently. _Please, Steve, forgive me_. Tony could feel his friend shut down behind him; where he was usually a beacon of strength, a paragon of compassion and caring, now stood a stone cold statue. A man who had shut himself off from everyone and everything around him, to protect the small boy in the alley with the trash can lid.

Ross was silent, weighing his options. It seemed as if he couldn't decide whether or not he could trust them; a fair concern, given their history together. But the two of them had spent almost no time together in the same room since Steve had turned himself in, and none of it had been alone. "Fine. Do you have something in particular in mind?"

"Funny you should ask," Tony said with that familiar cocky lilt. His hands were in his pockets, and he rocked forward on his toes like an excited kid. "I have just the thing in mind. It's over there." Inclining his head towards the far wall, there sat a small black briefcase.

"Tony," Steve whispered softly. Tony twitched his elbow, a tiny gesture that looked like nothing more than his typical ceaseless fidgeting but spoke volumes to the man who'd had his six for so many years. _Hold_ , it said. _Wait_. Steve's lips pressed into a thin line that nearly vanished into his face, and he fell silent.

Ross looked down at the woman standing at his side, an aide whose name Tony hadn't bothered to remember. She nodded in response, then went to retrieve the case. Tony met her halfway back with that same charming smile, set the case on the table with a surprisingly heavy thump, and pressed his thumbs against the locks. There was a low hum, then a lock slid open. With a quick glance to Steve, the lid popped open. Inside was an impeccably folded uniform, dark blue with a complicated latticework of a paler blue woven throughout. From this angle, he could tell it was structured in a very similar style the uniform he'd worn himself.

The uniform he didn't deserve anymore.

"Meet the newest piece of Stark technology," Tony intoned, an undeniable note of pride in his voice. "I call it the Coordinated Apparatus for Protection. CAP, for short." He tossed a casual smile at Steve, who narrowed his eyes in irritation. "Modeled after Steve's suit, I've made several modifications for networking capabilities, sort of a cross between the uniform and my suit." Both hands lifted the heavy fabric up, revealing a strongly sculpted torso. "Among its many new features, the one I'm particularly proud of is the shrapnel and bullet resistance. Not everyone's got such skill with a shield, after all." Again that look of disapproval, that flash of deep hurt flickered on Steve's face. Tony was careful to keep the looks he spared Steve quick; too long, and the facade might break. And now was not the time to lose his composure.

"Have you tested it?" Ross asked, cutting through Tony's thoughts. He kept his distance, eyeing the new suit with a blend of fascination and heavy suspicion. It draped across the table, and Tony could feel Steve’s eyes devouring the sight of it.

He missed it. Despite his big words about worthiness, and title, and claim, Steve missed his calling.

Well, maybe just for a minute, Tony could give it back to him.

“Of course I’ve tested it,” came Tony’s reply in a derisive snort. There was a brief pause in which he was pretty sure he could feel the skeptical judgment from everyone in the room, including Steve. “Once. In a lab.”

“So it’s never been field tested?” the aide asked, one thin blond brow raising over pale eyes. Tony’s dark eye shifted up from the fabric in his hands to the face of the young woman.

“Nope. Gonna give Steve one last hurrah before you throw him into the hole. That only seems fair, right?” Draping the fabric over his arm, Tony crossed back to Steve and turned back to Ross. He waited in the relative silence before sighing heavily. “You gonna give the man some privacy to change? I don’t know if you noticed, but this doesn’t exactly just fit right over his jeans. Cap’s gotta be in his underoos, and that seems a bit personal, even for you.”

General Thaddaeus Ross did not take well to a challenge. Especially not from a man with whom he’d been at odds for months. But in a room full of people, ready to turn in the man who was perceived as the single biggest threat to international safety, wasn’t the place. So instead, after only a brief glance to his aide, he nodded. “Fine. The room has been reinforced anyway. One way in, one way out.” One hand waved off the rest of the staff. Without argument, they vanished, leaving just the three of them. 

One dark brow rose over equally dark, entirely unamused eyes. “You too, Ross. One way in, one way out. You’ve got my suits, what exactly do you think we’re going to do in here that you need to be a part of?” There was a pause, then Tony snorted. “Never took you for much of a voyeur, but hey, if that’s what melts your butter…”

"Jesus Christ, Stark, are you always such a juvenile?" Ross snapped, his cheeks burning red at the implication his was clearly entirely uncomfortable with.

"You can ask Rogers for confirmation, but I'm pretty sure you know the answer to that question is yes. Now get. Out." Silence descended on the small room, Tony and Ross locked in a battle of wills while Steve stared down at the floor between his feet, biting hard enough into his cheek to draw fresh blood. 

Finally, Ross snorted and rolled his eyes. "Fine." He brushed past them both, shoving the key to the shackles blindly into Tony's hand. As his hand reached for the knob, the corner of his lips turned up in a sharp sneer. "You get five minutes to say your goodbyes." Without waiting for rebuttal, he yanked open the door and stepped outside, slamming it heavily behind him.

Suddenly alone, the silence was almost oppressive between them. If looks could kill, the hateful stare Tony leveled after Ross' back would have burned down the building around their ears. Steve, for his part, sighed heavily and crouched down on the floor, hanging his head. A faint tremor ran through his shoulders, and he swallowed hard. "Jesus Christ, Tony," Steve whispered hoarsely, making the genius look down at him, surprise clear on his face.

"C'mon, Rogers, up you get." Tony laid a hand on Steve's shoulder and gripped him hard. "Duty calls."

That brought him to his feet, if slowly. He turned sad eyes to Tony, the look on his face twisting in the shorter man's chest, right behind his scars. "Tony, I told you, I'm not--" 

"Captain America, yeah, I heard you." With a dismissive wave, Tony turned his attention down to the shackles. He sneered at the key Ross had given him and tossed it onto the floor with a faint ping. A second key slipped out of his pocket, much to Steve's unsurprised chagrin, as he unlocked the chains. They fell away with a loud clang as Tony took them away.

"I can see that." Sarcasm was heavy in Steve's voice as he rubbed at his wrists, silently thankful for the relief. "CAP? Seriously?"

"Yeah, seriously. I didn't pick blue because it's a patriotic color. You know what else it means? Integrity. Trust. Loyalty. I don't care who you think you are or aren't anymore, Steve. Those things make you who you are. Those are the things about Steve Rogers that could never come out of a bottle." Tony's dark eyes were hard with familiar conviction, and it stunned Steve into silence. They still for a long moment before Tony turned away with a wave of the shackles. "Strip. I won't look, I swear."

"It's not like you haven't seen me naked before," Steve said, voice a little thicker than usual. He stripped with military efficiency, then took the suit from Tony's outstretched arm. No surprise, it fit him absolutely perfectly. He cleared his throat to let Tony know it was safe, and the genius turned around.

The sight of Steve in his suit took Tony's breath away. Not only did it fit better than any tailored suit, but he cut an imposing figure in such flawless technical prowess, his physical strength and imposing size made all the clearer by the criss-crossing lines. "That...is..." At a loss for words, Tony coughed once and walked around Steve to get a look at the back. His cheeks were hot, and he stalled by pulling on a couple things at the neck. "Look, Steve, there isn't a lot of time," he said quietly, leaning in close to whisper in Steve's ear. The unexpected proximity took him off guard, a shiver racing up the taller man's spine. "But I have some--"

"Time's up!" The door burst open, and Ross forced his way into the room. Tony and Steve jumped apart like they were caught doing something illicit. "Come on, Rogers, showtime. Stark, put those shackles back on." Tony wasn't quite able to hide his flinch, and Ross sneered at him. "Hurry it up. We don't have all day."

Tony came back around to stand in front of Steve, who was just finishing adjusting the hood so it covered most of his neck, and up his head. He dropped his hands down between them, palms up. "It's ok, Tony," he said softly. "We all pay for our crimes eventually."

"This is utter horseshit, and you know it," Tony seethed, hands shaking as he snapped the cuffs into place. Steve bit back a wince, nearly giving in to the instinct to lean forward and press a kiss to Tony's forehead. The impulse startled him, and instead he took a step back. Tony blinked up at him in surprise, but didn't say anything. Instead, he turned to Ross. "Alright, jackass. Let's go." His right hand brushed across the watch on his left, and his new gauntlet snicked into existence. Simultaneously, from the bottom of the briefcase, the rest of his suit snapped into place around him. Through his helmet, he could see Ross' displeasure, and for the first time all day, he grinned. "Oh please, like you didn't see this coming," he intoned from inside the suit, his voice now deeper with that hint of a mechanical buzz.

The walk to the vans was silent, like a death march. Tony stayed at the back, eyes locked on the back of Steve's head the entire time. Ross climbed into the car with Steve, and the Iron Man stayed back as air escort. They drove through the city, streets closed by local law enforcement. Thousands of people filled the streets, some in protest, but most in celebration. It made Tony sick to see, so instead he focused his attention on the roof of the van.

They pulled up in front of the main JCTC building, and Tony landed at the base of the stairs. “I really think this should be less public,” he muttered to no one in particular. Two officers in full tactical gear opened the door, and Steve stepped out into the sunlight. He winced at the brightness, looking for Tony. He stood out in his red and gold suit, and he could see the tension fade from the surrendered Captain’s shoulders. 

A loud cheer rose from the crowd, blatantly hostile in nature. Tony was somewhat surprised no one was throwing rocks at them. “Can we hurry this up?” Tony called out to Ross, who waved him off as he leaned back into the car to say something. Steve waited patiently, head held high, eyes staring at nothing in particular. After a moment, Ross straightened and grabbed his elbow. Steve barely hid a flinch before nodding and heading up the stairs. Tony tore his eyes away from Steve and looked up at the surrounding buildings. “I don’t like this…”

The words had barely left his lips when he saw it. From an upper window in a building a block away, two quick flashes. Then the hiss of parted air, and the sick sound of hot lead meeting flesh. Tony spun around to see Steve stumble up the steps, tripping over his own feet. The dark blue suit was stained red with fresh blood, spreading fast. His upper body twisted as he crashed hard onto the concrete.

Chaos. A swarm of soldiers descended defensively around Steve’s prone body, covering both him and Ross. Shouts, pushing back of the public. But there were no additional shots. Why should there be? The bullets had found their target. Tony shoved his way past the men and dropped to his knees beside Steve. His helmet folded back into his suit as he scooped Steve up into his lap. “Steve, Steve…come on, man, don’t do this to me,” he said, shaking the man in his lap.

Blood streaked up Steve’s pale neck, smeared across his face and pumping freely out from the joint of his neck and shoulder. It flowed over his fingers, and he could swear he felt the hot slick between his fingers. Hazy blue eyes opened and struggled to lock on Tony’s face. “Tony…” he breathed, bound hands reaching for his face. They slid across his cheeks, leaving blood in their wake. “I’m…sorry…”

“Don’t you start with me, Rogers.” Tony looked over at Ross, who was cowering on the steps, eyes wide. “FRIDAY, is—“

“Emergency medical services are enroute, boss,” she answered before he finished his question.

“S-stop, Tony,” Steve coughed from his lap. “Not…worth it…”

“Shut up.” Tony’s voice was a sharp snap, wavering with emotion he couldn’t show. Weakness he couldn’t admit.

“Boss, the Captain’s vitals are failing,” FRIDAY said in his ear. “He’s not going to—“

“You shut up, too. Steve, you’ve gotta stay with me. Please, don’t…just don’t.” The gauntlet fell away to the steps, and Tony felt Steve’s skin. Clammy, cold. His pulse was thready under the mechanic’s trembling, calloused fingers. “Don’t…”

Steve’s smile was weak, his eyes going dark. “Take care of them for me, Tony."


	5. Funerals and Poor Decision Making

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony deals with Steve's funeral, and the aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me, guys, I'm flattered. <3 Comments, as always, are appreciated.

_Blood. Blood everywhere. Thick and bright and sharp with the tang of iron. Smeared across the pale blue-white skin of the dying Captain, staining the suit that was supposed to protect him. Protect them all._

_Once again, Tony Stark had failed._

_What else was new?_

_The scent filled his nostrils, so cloying it was almost like he could feel it. Tony tried to draw in a deep breath to clear it, only to find he **could** feel it. Wet and warm on his face, each breath drew more of the liquid into his lungs, choking him. He coughed hard, tasting the bitterness, the slick coating his tongue like oil. _

_Iron for the Iron Man. Fitting._

_"Why?" Steve's broken voice cut through the chaos, ragged and desperate. One shaking hand rose up and gripped the open neck of Tony's suit with a last burst of strength. "Why did you kill me?"_

_"I didn't!" Tony's protest faltered on his lips, weakened by guilt and shame as he watched the life ebb from those crystal blue eyes. "Please, Steve, don't go...I didn't mean..."_

_"You never mean." It was Steve's voice, but his lips never moved. Stone cold, his skin had the same pale cast as when they pulled him out of the ice, only there was no thawing him out this time. The grip of his fingers slackened, hand falling away in slow motion. "Tony Stark never means anything."_

Tony woke with a gasp, throwing the tangled blankets off his legs and scrambling to his feet in his haste to escape the nightmare. Eyes wide in a bright room, he blinked against the blinding light, tripping over his own two feet and hitting the floor hard. "FRIDAY," he gasped, clutching at his chest as pain twisted behind his ribs. A knife through the heart, burning pain of an anxiety attack. "FRIDAY, what--" 

"Breathe, boss. You had another nightmare. You're awake now." The soothing voice of his AI cut through the chaos. Tony drew in a rough breath, breathing through the pain and forcing his thoughts to calm. It took several minutes, a fine sheen of sweat coating his brow by the time he could finally see straight again. "Are you here, boss?" 

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm here." His voice was thick, mouth dry as cotton, but he was there. "FRIDAY, what day is it?" 

"Saturday, Boss. The funeral is in three hours." 

Tony flinched hard at that. The funeral. Right. 

Fuck. 

Several minutes passed before Tony managed to get himself moving. He couldn't not go. That would only make this worse. So instead, he pulled a nearly full bottle of scotch out of the bedside table, down a handful of low-grade pain killers (no reason to mix vices, after all), and made his way to the shower to get ready. 

The funeral was brutal. Condolence after condolence. Tears shed, by everyone except Tony. He was too cold, too wrung out. He'd done his crying already, out of the public eye. Now, it was on him to present the calm, cold face of the Avengers. 

What was left of them, anyway. 

It had been a huge state affair, held in New York. Tony insisted on helping to bear the casket. One hand supported the pole against his shoulder; the palm of the other pressed flat against the cold wood. His face was hard, cut from marble. Once the casket was in place at the front of the church, he took his seat in the front pew, alone. Several people tried to sit beside him; all were chased off with flat stares that promised no quarter. Finally, it was Pepper who simply sat down beside him, oblivious to his look. Instead of fleeing, she settled in and laid her hand on the bench, a silent invitation. 

By the time Sam was up giving the eulogy, Tony had threaded his fingers with hers, clinging to them for dear life. 

The rest of the day was a blur of faces, tears, and memories. As soon as he felt it was close enough to appropriate, which was about three hours before it probably was, Tony fled. He returned to Stark Tower and headed straight for the common room. A healthy serving of scotch was poured into a tumbler and drained before he gave up all pretense and simply carried the bottle over to the couch, leaving the glass behind. Memories of laughter echoed in his ears, and he took several long pulls from the lip of the green glass before pulling away with a gasp for air. 

"So how was my funeral?" Asked a painfully familiar, smooth voice from the top of the stairs, half in shadow. A lance of golden light cut across handsome features, lighting brilliant blue eyes that danced with private amusement. Booted feet were quiet on the step as he moved fully out of the dark, full lips curled up in half a smile. Tony's dark eyes moved slowly up strong legs clad in dark denim, to the almost shockingly casual zippered hoodie and soft grey t-shirt that molded itself to his chest. 

Steve. 

"A grand affair of the state," Tony said with a broad wave of his hand, the scotch sloshing noisily in the bottle. Steve's smile faded some at the sight, and he only barely resisted the urge to step forward and take it from him. "Many tears were shed, twenty-one gun salute. I carried your casket and everything." He took another drink before resting the bottle against his thigh. "You would have hated it." 

"I'm glad I didn't watch it then." Approaching cautiously, like one might try to get close to a wounded animal, Steve found himself a perch on the arm of an armchair, slightly narrowed eyes studying Tony closely. "You seem a bit shaken up for a fake funeral you planned, Tony." 

"It almost wasn't fake," he snapped back, letting his dark eyes slide closed with a tight intake of breath through his nose. His empty hand rose to loosen his red and blue tie, a well planned gesture of respect for the fallen. Fingers fumbled with the soft silk, parting the top few buttons and seeking aching skin. Tony had spent the entirety of the day fighting off crippling anxiety, and it seemed to be catching up with him. It felt like his heart was trying to leap out of his chest, every inch of ragged scar tissue throbbing. "Didn't take much to convince myself it was real, either." The bottle rose to his lips again, liquor stinging against his tongue as he ignored Steve's radiating disapproval. "Besides, being surrounded by a thousand crying people is grating on the nerves whether it's real or not." 

Because that was what really did him in. Not the thought that Steve was dead; had that been the case, they would likely have had two caskets at that funeral instead of one. No, it was the flood of happy memories, stories of their adventures. The nobility, the glory, the good things they did together. The battles fought and won. How in the end, they made the best damn team out there, the group of them. 

The two of them. 

There had been a slideshow during the reception, hundreds of pictures spanning the decades. Mysteriously absent with the images of him before the serum, but Tony didn't mind. What he focused on instead was the brilliance of that smile. A smile he hadn't seen in months since he'd chased it away. 

Most people were comforted by such stories, tales of the glory days. It made them all warm and fuzzy inside, and gave them something nice to remember Steve by at night. 

All it did for Tony was remind him that he'd destroyed those things, shredded them with his ego and stubborn arrogance. As he listened to every story, every recollection, his gracious smile grew colder and colder. The approximation of a kind expression didn't touch his shattered eyes, and his grip on Pepper's hand grew tighter the longer she stayed. As if he was afraid to release her; like she was all that kept him on his feet. 

Tony's painful recollections of the afternoon were interrupted when Steve sat down on the coffee table directly in front of him. The same table they'd all surrounded that night, back before Ultron, before everything started to collapse around his ears, bickering and drinking and enjoying each other. Slightly glassy brown eyes blinked at the unexpected proximity of the towering super soldier. One leg on either side of Tony's knees, denim against wool, he leaned forward on his elbows and crowded unrelentingly into the mechanic's space. "Tony, look at me," he said in a low voice as the man looked away. "C'mon, Tony. Look at me. Please." 

Several painful heartbeats passed before Tony finally looked up, daring to meet those calm blue eyes that haunted his dreams. He swallowed hard and bit down on the inside of his cheek. "What?" He asked, trying to be annoyed, but only managing unsteady. 

"I'm right here." Large, warm hands folded around the hand on the bottle, holding fast as he tried to pull away. "I'm not going anywhere. Ok?" 

"You say that now," Tony muttered, wanting to look away, but unable. "You've said that before, too." The fingers wrapped around his hand tightened briefly, digging almost painfully into Tony's wrists. The silence between them was heavy, thick with regret and pain. 

"I did," Steve finally said, swallowing around the painful lump that had formed in his throat. He broke eye contact first, looking down at his large, lighter hands covering Tony's rough, darker ones. The silence dragged between them, the only sound that of their staggered breathing. The longer they sat in such close proximity, though, the more synchronized they became, Tony's speedier breaths slowing to match Steve's. Finally, Steve closed his eyes and sighed heavily, still not releasing the mechanic's trembling hands. "I'm sorry." 

The apology took Tony by surprise. He startled back a little, brow furrowing as he tried to get his eyes to focus through the haze of too many tears, and not enough whiskey. A thousand questions battled for space in his mind, and finally one snuck through. "For what?" 

"Everything." Keeping his head down, Steve took the bottle from Tony and set it on the table beside him, absently pleased that it had come without a fight. "For Bucky, for the Accords, for running off...for your parents." Tears shone in his eyes, gathering in the corners and threatening to fall down his cheeks. "God, Tony, I'm _sorry_. You deserve so much better than I gave you." His head lifted, making eye contact again through the shimmering blur. 

"Jesus Christ, Rogers, you think _you_ owe _me_ an apology for the Accords?" Tony was staggered by this. He twisted his hands in Steve's and gripped the underside of his wrists. "God, Steve, I'm the one who backed you into a corner with those. I should have...I shouldn't...I didn't..." Too much whiskey, too many tears, not enough sleep, and Tony couldn't pull the words together. His dark eyes darted around Steve's face, as if looking for a clue, or a sign, or something to guide him. After a few impossibly long seconds, he released one of Steve's hands, twisted a grip on the front of his hoodie, and pulled him close for a hard, fast kiss. 

Tony's lips were soft. That was Steve's first thought. He froze at the unexpected contact, entire body tense as he struggled to form a coherent thought. Then the tip of his warm tongue was tracing along the full curve of his lower lip, nudging just past his lips, and he gave that up. His now free hand wove into the soft tangles at the back of Tony's head, curling tighter at the soft moan he got in response. One quick shift of his weight, and Steve was kneeling on the couch, straddling Tony's lap. 

The move surprised Tony, but he certainly wasn't going to argue with it. His lips parted in a soft gasp before he deepened the kiss, tongue chasing the sweet, pure taste of Steve. He'd dreamed about kissing the man for months, years even, and to have him so suddenly and so immediately on him was...perfect. He untangled their fingers and let both hands wander that intimately familiar, yet completely new torso. Even through the thick fabric of his sweatshirt, Tony could feel the power and cut of his musculature. Every dip and curve was burned into his memory, but now to feel it under his hands, touch with intent? Tony wouldn't give that up for the world. His fingers clutched at the fabric almost desperately, one hand fumbling for the zipper and pulling it down so the sides of the shirt fell open and left Steve's tight shirt and warm body exposed for exploration. 

"God, Tony," gasped Steve as he felt those deft, quick mechanic's fingers dance across the thin fabric of his t-shirt. He pushed his advantage, using his greater size to lean Tony back against the couch. His grip shifted, and he tugged Tony's head back to open the angle of their kiss, his tongue chasing back Tony's and dipping into his mouth to taste him. He was warm, and sweet, with the hint of sharpness from the whiskey. 

Whiskey. _Shit._

As suddenly as it started, Steve pulled away with a strangled gasp. One hand still in Tony's hair, he pressed their foreheads together and struggled to catch his breath, even as Tony continued to touch him. "Tony, we can't," he breathed, feeling his body tremble with the effort of stopping. 

"Why not?" Tony's voice was a tempting purr as he used the broken kiss as a chance to nip along Steve's neck, feeling his pounding pulse against his lips. 

That was a damn good question, and the feeling of those hands, those _teeth_...fuck but it felt good. What harm could come from indulging? Just this once? He didn't always have to be good, did he? No one else was. A sharp tug from his fingers pulled Tony away from his throat, and before he could stop himself he ducked down for another kiss. The low groan from the genius beneath him nearly undid him there, Steve rocking his hips forward in search of friction. But his conscience got the better of him again, and Steve pulled away, this time releasing Tony's hair and shoulder, planting both hands on the back of the couch. "No, Tony, we _can't_." 

The hands on Steve's sides dropped to his hips and clutched at his jeans, tugging him forward. "We _can_ ," Tony insisted, frowning as he was met by resistance. "Please, Steve..." His tan cheeks were flushed, between the rising lust and too much whiskey, and his head was spinning. 

Deliberately, knowing this was going to hurt, Steve removed Tony's hands from his hips and stood up, stepping back out of reach. "Not like this, Tony. Maybe if...but not like this." Steve's palms itched to touch him again, to feel the soft curls of Tony's dark hair against his skin, to taste those lips again, but he knew he'd regret it if they followed through now. Steve wanted more than a one-night drunken fuck on a leather couch. 

But Tony didn't see that. Too drunk, he shoved to standing, a little unsteady on his feet. Steve instinctively reached forward to help steady him, but his hand was batted away. "Don't fucking touch me, choir boy," Tony snapped as he pushed past the taller man. "I should have known." 

"Known what? What I'm not going to take advantage of a man who's so drunk he can't stand, much less make a sound decision about whether or not he should sleep with someone? Yeah, you're right, I'm not." Steve could feel his temper rising, and did his best to tamp it back down. Tony was drunk, and that made him more prone to lashing out. That didn't make it hurt any less, though. 

"That you were this big of a fucking _prude_ ," Tony shot back. He'd snatched the bottle off the table on his way past, and crossed over to the bar to put some distance between himself and Steve. His free hand shook visibly as he pushed it through his hair. Rejection stung, especially from the one person in the world he wanted the most. 

No, Tony didn't want Steve. He _needed_ him. And he'd just been completely shut down. 

The fact that he was right, that making out like horny teenagers while drunk out of his mind was a terrible idea, was irrelevant to the pain that cut through his chest. Tony brought the bottle to his lips and tipped it back, draining the last of it with several slow, thick swallows that Steve could see from across the room. The glass bottle dropped back down heavily onto the counter, and Tony slid it away from him. His eyes were glassy, distant as he stared at his hands on the counter. "Get out." 

Steve's heart lurched at the sight, at knowing he was at least partly to blame for this. He took a step forward, then stopped himself. "Tony, please-" 

"I said get out!" Tony's voice was rough and ragged, skipping over the tears that lodged in his throat. "If all you're going to do is stand there and judge me, I can do that just fine by myself." He turned around and started rifling through the cabinets, looking for another bottle. 

Steve bristled and crossed the room in just a few long strides. He grabbed Tony's bicep in a vice-like grip, ignoring the yelp of protestation as he dragged the man to his feet. "Get your hands off me, you brute!" Tony said, but Steve wasn't listening. 

"I'm not going to let you sit here and drink yourself to death, Tony. I'm not dead, you're not dead, you have your suits. Everything else we can sort out when you sober up." He backed Tony up until his hip bumped the counter, caging him in with his larger body. "You've got two choices, Stark. You can put yourself to bed, or I'll do it for you. Which will it be?" Normally kind eyes the color of a summer sky were impossibly hard and cold, blue diamonds that glittered down at Tony as he blinked up at him. 

"I'm a big boy, choir boy. I'll put myself to bed." Tony's voice had lost much of the fight, now just petulant and stubborn. Steve wouldn't have been surprised to see a pout on his face if the man wasn't so damnably difficult. 

"Good choice." Steve waited another moment before taking a step back to allow Tony to straighten. He saw those dark brown eyes shift to look back at the expansive stash of alcohol, but a single noise in the back of his throat disabused the smaller man of any such notion. "Get." 

Tony sneered up at Steve, but he knew when he'd been outmaneuvered. He pushed off the counter and made his stumbling way towards the elevator, either oblivious to or deliberately ignoring the fact that Steve was only half a step behind him, ready to catch him if he fell. The elevator was waiting when he reached it, and Tony leaned heavily against the back wall of the car, letting his head fall back with a groan. "You know I have more booze in my room, right?" He said, words slurring together slightly. 

Of course he did. Steve stood his ground, arms folded over his chest as he stared at the man. "If you can make it to your bed and get yourself a drink before passing out or tripping on your own two feet and knocking yourself unconscious on the corner of a table, you can have it." 

"Hah, I'll show you." Tony's lips curled up in a grin, and even Steve couldn't resist a twitch of his own lips in response. 

"I'm sure you will. Good night, Tony. We'll...we'll talk tomorrow." The elevator doors slid closed, leaving Steve standing alone in the granite hall. His arms dropped down to his sides as he sighed heavily. Turning, he eyed the same bar Tony had been looting moments before. Never before had he so badly wished that he could get drunk.


End file.
